Scholar

because of his efforts in attempting various imaging approaches to creating some sort of shield to protect himself against direct attacks. He’d always relied upon avoiding any direct confrontation, but the events of the last few months had made it clearer and clearer that such an approach was not sufficient for the situation in which he found himself.

You put yourself there.

He had, but … over the long run, the alternatives would have been worse.

Over the long run, you’ll be dead anyway. Everyone is.

That thought didn’t offer much consolation, and, besides, he was where he was, not somewhere else.

He’d tried imaging a net of colorless silk, and ended up with a pile of silk threads. He’d attempted an invisible net like that of a spiderweb, anchoring it between the trees, but it had immediately dragged down the branches, and he’d imaged it away.

What’s as light as the air that you could harden?

“Clouds … fog…” he murmured.

He straightened on the park bench and concentrated on creating a shield of fog-hard misty fog.

The air before him seemed to shiver … almost rippling … and then tiny ice pellets appeared in midair and cascaded down onto the path between the trees, and a wave of chill air washed over him.

For a moment, he felt light-headed, but that passed. He decided to wait for a time to regain his strength and turned his thoughts to another part of his problems-the governor. Everyone seemingly liked the man. He was warm and charming. He spoke well. He certainly took good care of his men, and they all felt he was an outstanding leader. With the strange exception of the timber holders, and possibly a few northers or High Holders in the north, Rescalyn appeared to be extremely effective as a governor, and even the seamstress who had to have been a member of the Sisters had offered testimony to that effectiveness.

Yet … Quaeryt had an uneasy feeling about Rescalyn.

The governor definitely knew what was happening in the regiment … down to who was friendly with whom-and he’d learned with whom Quaeryt had talked at the mess in less than a matter of days. He’d also opened all the obvious records to Quaeryt without the slightest qualm or hesitation and made it clear that Quaeryt was free to look anywhere.

The scholar/imager shook his head, then straightened.

Time to try something else. But what?

What else was as light as air or lighter?

Smoke?

How could he make smoke into a shield? Especially an invisible one that he could carry all the time?

What about the air itself? Could he just-somehow-harden it?

But how?

What if he visualized the air as tiny shields, hooked together, so that when something struck them, the hooks stiffened?

He concentrated, focusing on the air a yard in front of him. He didn’t see anything, but felt as though he were carrying a weight. He stepped forward and extended his hand, palm first. His palm ran into a barrier, one he couldn’t see.

He couldn’t help but grin. He offered a side kick with his boot, but the barrier remained firm enough that the kick shivered back through his leg. He took out his belt knife and pressed it against the barrier. He didn’t thrust it, fearing that the tip of the blade might slip or break. Even with his weight behind the knife, the barrier seemed impenetrable to the blade, and he sheathed it carefully.

At the same time, he felt as though he had been running, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He let go of the feeling of the hooks, and the unseen weight lifted from him. He took one deep breath, and then another, blotting the sweat from his forehead as he did.

When his breathing returned to normal, he tried hardening the air again, this time making the hooks looser. The unseen barrier was far easier to hold, but it bent and the knife cut through it, slowly, as if it were going through soft cheese or even fresh bread.

He was soaked and dripping sweat when he finally settled back onto the bench, breathing heavily. If he hardened the air enough to stop an arrow or a blade, or especially a crossbow bolt, he would be exhausted in less than half a quint. If he didn’t, and held what he could with perhaps as much effort as walking, the air slowed things, but didn’t stop them. An even “looser” or lighter shield took almost no effort, but barely slowed anything.

Something like the second kind of air shield might keep an arrow from going through you … maybe. Or slow a sabre stroke enough for you to dodge.

He just sat there on the bench for a time. He didn’t have any other ideas.

But then … maybe if he practiced the shields, the way the soldiers drilled, day after day … maybe he could build up what the shields could do. In any case, he was exhausted, and there wasn’t much else he could do at the moment.

His thoughts drifted back to the reception the night before.

He’d definitely revealed too much in his brief encounter with Mistress Eluisa. But you’ve always had a weakness for intelligent and talented women. And you’ve met so few.

How was a near-penniless scholar who could come up with a few extra coppers and silvers through imaging ever going to meet someone like that? Watching Eluisa play and talking to her for a few moments … or receiving a letter or two from Vaelora … those were the few times he’d even come into momentary contact with such women, and such incidents would be few and far between unless his circumstances changed.

… or unless you change them.

He smiled ruefully. Accomplishing anything along those lines, when he had little ability in trade or in fighting, was going to take some doing.

Finally he stood. He needed to wash up and rest before dinner … and after that he might as well take in services and hear whatever Phargos had to offer with his homily.

47

By midday on Lundi, Quaeryt was riding beside Major Skarpa on the river road, heading northwest from Tilbora, with five companies following them. Fastened behind his saddle was a cylindrical kit bag that had been left in his quarters on Solayi afternoon and that held a spare set of browns and other items that he would need for the time-not ever spelled out, except in general terms along the lines of “as long as it takes to give you a good understanding”-he was supposed to accompany the companies of Sixth Battalion. Those generalities didn’t give him the best feelings about what Rescalyn had in mind.

It might have been the first day of Erntyn, the second month of harvest, but the air was hot and heavy, and Quaeryt kept having to blot his forehead and the back of his neck. Part of that was because of the effort he was making to hold very light imaging shields, although he had figured how to link them to his saddle so that he didn’t have to keep creating new ones as he rode.

When everything finally appeared settled into a routine, Quaeryt looked to Skarpa and said, “When I talked to the governor for a few moments on Samedi, it was clear that he seems to know anything that goes on in the regiment.”

“Good marshals and commanders do. Even as governor, he still holds the rank of marshal. He meets with the regiment commander daily, and he joins the commander’s meetings with each battalion major at least once a week. He doesn’t ever go around the chain of command. He’ll let the commander ask most of the questions, but those meetings aren’t a formality. Both he and the commander ask solid questions. Afterward we often get suggestions from the commander, things like differences in training or possible shifts in junior officers.…” Skarpa laughed. “I can usually guess which suggestion is from Commander Myskyl and which is from the governor. Either way, they’re usually right. Not always. If I can explain why it’s not a good idea, the commander doesn’t press. He just wants his officers to think things through. So does the marshal.”

“What did you think about the reception on Samedi? Does he have them often, or it is something he seldom